We Looked Like Giants
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Jim Gordon investigates the murder of Mary Keeny, great-grandmother of Jonathan Crane.
1. Prologue

AN: So my flash drive had a _moment_ and tried to eat my work. I recovered most of it, but what little there was of this story was lost. (Like, two chapters, so could've been worse.) That's why it's taken so long-first the inspiration skipped off into the cornfields, then the story got eaten.

My attempt on Gotham-ising Crane's _Year One_ backstory, because why not? Kitty Richardson is mine (see profile), Gordon wishes I didn't do this (sorry, Jim), and Harvey wonders what the fuck is wrong with this city. I don't know, Harvey. I do not know.

Updates on Fridays.

* * *

Jonathan Crane lies in bed, having long since given up finding a comfortable position. It's cold and he's sick and tired and the scratches on his back have settled into a dull ache. Could be worse. He could be outside, out _there_.

He looks at the door, wondering if Granny will be up soon. He hopes so-he'd like to go downstairs for a glass of water.

Something outside scrapes his window and he flinches, rolls over to make sure it isn't a crow. It's just the old tree.

He's glad it's Saturday. He should be back at school on Monday, but right now he's dizzy at the very thought of gym.

 _Tap-tap._

He rolls over in time to see his window open.

"Kitty?" Is she crazy? She must be. And wasn't that window locked? Oh, wait, no, because his room is on the _third floor_. If she falls out of that tree and breaks her neck, it will be her own fault. "Kitty, what are you doing here?"

"You haven't been in class for three days."

Oh.

That...that is a good reason, actually.

"I'm not dead, I'll be back on Monday."

She clambers onto his bed and sets a backpack on the floor. What is she doing? If Granny comes up here...

"You look terrible."

"Just a cold." He reaches for his glasses and sits up. "If she catches you..."

"Relax, I've had practice." He really should ask her about that one day. "Live a little."

"I'm trying to."

She laughs softly and reaches into the backpack.

"Homework, water bottle, and a granola bar because Mum hates shopping and hasn't been to the store for two days."

"How'd you get my notebook?"

"Broke into your locker." She grins at him. "Sorry you taught me that yet?"

"A little bit." What was that? An old house creaking or Granny's footstep on the stair? "Look-"

"When did you get that?"

"Get what?"

Her finger brushes his throat just below the scratch there and he shivers.

"Monday night."

"I didn't...scarf."

"Yeah." He glances at the door again. "Kitty, if she catches you up here-"

She places her finger against his lips.

"Shh. Relax."

He falls silent and leans against his pillow, straining for any sounds from downstairs.

"You're really warm." she murmurs. "Maybe you should go to the doctor."

"M'fine." He swallows a cough and pulls away from her hand. "Really, it's just a cold."

She doesn't look like she believes him, but she rocks back on her heels and looks at the door. He picks up the water bottle and drains half of it.

"She's going to kill you one of these days."

"Six months and I can move out."

"Jonathan-" There's a noise downstairs and they both freeze, whispers hanging in the air. One, two, three minutes pass before he breathes easy again. "Jonathan, what if you get really sick? Or she leaves you out there or-"

"Shh." Was that another noise? "Six months, I'll be fine."

"If you kill her first." she mutters darkly. "Don't look at me like that, it's Gotham."

"I'd get caught."

"Make it look like an accident. Is she allergic to bees or something?" He raises an eyebrow. "Only joking, love."

 _Swish-thud._

Oh, no.

"Here she comes."

She grabs her backpack, gives him a quick kiss on the forehead, and is gone in seconds. He closes the window, lies down, and barely remembers to take his glasses off before his doorknob begins to turn.

"Jonathan?"

He blinks and pulls away from the light.

"G-Granny? What time is it?"

"I heard voices." she snaps at him. "If that whore was up here..."

"Huh?" He swallows hard and gives her his best sleepy-confused look. "I don't..."

"Be quiet."

It takes two thorough checks of his room to satisfy her and she's angry with him for making her suspicious.

"If I catch you doing _anything_ , boy, so help me..."

She leaves, muttering half-formed threats under her breath, and he rolls over again.

Six more months, that's all he needs.

Assuming she lets him leave.


	2. Chapter One

AN: Recommended listening: "Hayling (Max Cooper Remix)". I originally did a take on this backstory with the regular version of 'Hayling' on heavy repeat, so since this is sort of a remix...heh. I don't know, either.

Mrs. R. will mum you to death. Poor Crane. Every time she sees him she tries to shove food down his throat. There's nothing he can do about it, either. Nothing.

* * *

Jim Gordon looks at the house in front of him and thinks, _very Gotham_.

The place is a tall, Victorian house that's been here forever. It looks like it's falling apart.

But he's not here to admire the architecture, he's here to look at the body.

At four-thirty this afternoon, they got a phone call about 'm-my grandmother...she's not moving, there's a lot of blood, send somebody, please...'

So here they are, at this old house on the outskirts of town. They brought an ambulance, but he doubts they'll need it.

"Christ."

Harvey went on ahead, and Jim hastens to find him and see what got such a reaction out of him.

Oh.

Mary Keeny is lying in the doorway of a smaller building behind the house, torn to shreds. Christ, what _happened_?

Ed's there already, looking like a kid on Christmas and not even bothering to pretend otherwise.

"Look what I found!" He holds up a handful of black feathers. "She was clutching these. And look at the head, see those gouges? Birds."

"That's...that's great, Ed. Good job."

"I'm gonna go, um...talk to the kid."

"Yeah, I'll help."

Partly it's because Harvey has no gift with kids. Mostly it's because he caught a glimpse of a shredded eyeball hanging out of its socket.

But he'll blame Harvey to make himself feel better.

They find the kid sitting on the steps, arms wrapped around his knees. He's pale and shaking and when he sees them he does his best to curl into a ball.

"Hey." Jim kneels down in front of him. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. My name is Jim Gordon, and this my partner, Harvey Bullock."

Harvey lifts a hand. The kid looks from one to the other and uncurls a little bit.

"Jonathan Crane."

"You called us, right?"

He nods.

"I-I found her...when I got home from school this afternoon, I didn't know what to do, I just-"

"It's okay, it's okay."

"What on earth is going on?"

A short, stocky woman in a blue bathrobe is marching across the yard. Harvey tries to block her but fails and then she's elbowing Jim aside to sit next to the boy.

"Jonathan? What happened, sweetie, what's going on?"

"Granny...she's dead, I don't..."

He breaks and she pulls him into a hug, rocking him back and forth and making quiet shushing noises. Harvey shoots Jim a look that clearly says, _the fuck?_

"Um, ma'm?"

Harvey steps forward, blinks, and says, "Mary?"

"Not now."

That tone reminds Jim of his mom when she was...less than pleased. This can wait for a minute.

Eventually Jonathan calms down enough to allow himself to be stood up and brushed off, and then the woman turns to them.

"Good to see you, Harvey. How's the nose?"

"Healed up, you know."

"Um..."

"Jim, this is Mary Richardson, she works at the clinic by the station. Mary, this is my partner Jim Gordon."

"Pleasure."

"Hi."

"Jonathan, go on and lie down."

"I think they..."

"Go on."

He looks from one to the other and Mary gives him a nudge.

"But..."

The look she throws him could silence Ed and the kid turns around without another argument.

Well. Back to the corpse it is.

God, he hates Mondays.


	3. Chapter Two

AN: It's _Gotham_ , Scheming Oswald needs to appear at least once. Dove Marquis is mine-she appears in _March of the Penguin_.

Christineoftheopera- _M-my grandmother died, isn't that what you're supposed to do?_

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot would sooner die than admit it, but his leg is killing him. It was cold today, and then he had to spend several hours in a building with several floors and no working elevator, and the end result was agony.

He's sitting in his chair, trying to ignore the pain and not being very successful.

"Boss?"

"What _is_ it, Miss Marquis."

She flinches and nearly drops her pen. Mousy little thing...

"D-do you want me to get your painkillers from upstairs?"

That obvious? How very irritating.

" _No_ , Miss Marquis, I do not."

She falls silent and he goes back to pretending he's not in pain and hoping Victor will return soon.

He's sorely considering saying To Hell With It and going to take a hot bath when a glass of water covered with a napkin sets itself down next to him.

He removes the napkin and feels two hard little lumps in it. Painkillers. Miss Marquis deserves a raise.

The painkillers don't take long to start working and he's finally a little more comfortable when the doors open and Victor Zsasz strolls in, disobedient once-lieutenant in tow. The man's hands are gone, the stumps bound with bloody gauze.

Lovely.

"Ah. Thank you, Victor." He gestures and the man is flung to the floor at his feet, sobbing. "Sit down."

He grabs a muffin and settles down next to Miss Marquis, staring unblinkingly at the weeping man on the floor. Oswald leans forward and tilts his head up.

"So," he says sweetly, "somebody's been a naughty boy."

* * *

Once Mary Keeny's body-what's left of it-is taken away, he goes to the house across the way in hopes of talking to the boy.

The kid is seated on the couch, clutching a mug and wrapped in three fairly heavy blankets. He's pale but otherwise calmed down enough to give them a shaky smile.

"Detectives."

"Hello, Jonathan." They sit down across from him and Jim, for his part, tries to ignore the woman looming in a doorway off to the side. "Could we ask you a few questions?"

He nods and takes a sip of whatever's in the mug.

"S-sure."

This never gets any easier, no matter how many times he does it.

"Mrs. Keeny was your grandmother, right?"

"Great-grandmother." His voice catches a little and Mrs. Richardson moves a bit.

"Okay. I know you probably don't feel like talking-"

"It's okay." He burrows into the blanket-mound a little more. "Just...can we just get it over with?"

"Sure."

"When did you last see her?"

"Last night. We had an argument, I came over here."

"That's right." Mrs. Richardson says suddenly. "Around eleven or so."

"Did that happen a lot?" Harvey asks. Jonathan blinks and for a second Jim could swear his eyes harden. But the second passes and all that sits in front of him is a confused, frightened boy.

"A bit." He tugs at his sleeve. "I didn't go back home this morning." he continues softly. "Maybe if I had...just for five minutes...sh-she wouldn't be..."

Mrs. Richardson is there in a flash, re-tucking the blankets around him and adjusting his hands on the mug.

"It's not your fault, sweetie." He doesn't answer. "You know that."

"Just one more thing and we'll be out of here." Jim leans forward. "What would she be doing out there?"

"That's the chapel. She spent quite a bit of time in it."

He's starting to shake again and Jim gives Harvey a nudge.

"I'm so sorry."

Jonathan doesn't say anything. Mrs. Richardson stands up.

"I'll show you out."


	4. Chapter Three

AN: Those of you who have read _Year One_ (or anything else of mine, actually) will know things. SHUT YOUR MOUTHS, NO SPOILERS. No update next week, because Christmas, but we'll be back online for New Year's.

Christineoftheopera- _Future...me? Okay...um...you do realize that show with the blue box is fiction, don't you?_

Chaos Supernova- _Murder...what are you talking about? I_ found _her, I didn't_ kill _her! She had a fall, that's all. Or a crazy homeless person did something to her._

* * *

"I don't like it."

Harvey looks over the top of his paper.

"You never like it. Doesn't mean a thing."

Whatever. He didn't like it either, or he'd deny there was anything wrong.

"It's just strange, that's all."

"It's Gotham, Jim."

Still. He'll be happy when Lee brings them the autopsy.

He flips through the pictures, cringing a little at the torn face and ragged hands. Christ, they really tore her up. What did she do, stumble across a nest or something?

"When did the call come in?"

"Um...four-thirty or so."

"School gets out at...three-ish...we should check for sports or something."

Harvey snorts.

"Chess club, that one."

Jim has to acknowledge that he's probably right.

"You do know that she probably pissed off a bunch of birds, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"So quit obsessing over it."

"I'm not obsessing."

Harvey scoffs and tosses a wadded-up straw paper at him.

"Yeah, right."

He rolls his eyes and hopes Lee finishes up soon.

* * *

 _Birds shrieking spiraling down in a flurry of black feathers and grasping claws no please no more no more no_ _ **more**_ _-_

Jonathan wakes, breathing hard and for a minute not remembering where he is or what happened.

 _Granny._

He swallows hard and closes his eyes again. Nothing. Just a dream.

"Jon'th'n?" The warm weight against his left side twitches a bit. "You okay?"

"Just a dream." Hang on. "Your mother is going to kill you."

"Only if she finds out." Kitty pokes him. "Go back to sleep."

"Your father is going to kill _me_."

"He's not even here."

Fine. It's late and she's warm anyway.

He sighs and tries to ignore the wind knocking the tree branches against the window. Sounds like crow's claws, sharp and grasping and

 _STOP!_

He wonders, not for the first time, if people can return from the dead.


	5. Chapter Four

AN: Happy New Year's! Did everyone who celebrates have a nice Christmas? Get anything good? My parents got me a little Oswald Funko thing and he's so **cute.** And bitchy-looking. :p

Also...

SHERLOCK. WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Christineoftheopera- _Uh, Mrs. Richardson? There's a crazy person in the yard!_

wickness- _There is no more! There's nothing to look at! She fell and the crows got her because they're territorial, that's all._

Chaos Supernova-Kitty belongs to me-there's an AN in the prologue. AND SHHHHHHHHH. NO. SPOILERS. ZIP IT OR I'LL SUMMON THE NAZGUL AND SHUT YOU UP THAT WAY.

* * *

God damn it.

The autopsy came back...well, not _clean_ , but...yeah. No signs of foul play. (Though Harvey thinks he's a comedian and has announced that there's plenty of signs of _fowl_ play. Ha ha. He's dying. Truly.)

"School says he wasn't one for after-school stuff." Harvey reports. "Came to class, went home."

"Any friends?"

"Neighbor girl-Mary's kid. Kitty."

"No one else?"

"I asked. Principle asked if I was kidding."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But drop it, autopsy said she went down at a bad time, case closed."

"I don't like it."

"Tough." Harvey stretches. "Hey, wanna get a beer-where are you going?"

Jim shrugs his coat on.

"Uh, to give him the autopsy report?"

Harvey does not look convinced, but he lets him go without further comment.

* * *

Jonathan is outside with a teenage girl when Jim arrives. This must be Kitty.

"Okay, if X equals Y minus thirty..."

Ugh. High school algebra, his old nemesis.

"My brain hurts already, kill me now."

"Do you want to fail?"

"Stripping can't be that bad."

"It's Gotham, it...Detective Gordon."

He waves. Jonathan slides off the porch and comes over, Kitty trailing behind him.

"Hey." He turns to the girl. "Jim Gordon."

"Kitty Richardson." She sounds incredibly uninterested in him. "D'you want me to get Mum..."

"No, I'm okay." He adjusts his glasses. "Did you need to talk to me?"

Well. He's perked up. The unease returns in force, makes him wonder again what she was doing out there.

His inner Harvey (he's been doing this too long, to have an inner Harvey*) says to leave the case _alone,_ that it's _closed_.

He ignores the inner Harvey.

"You said your grandmother spent a lot of time in the...chapel, was it?"

 _Both_ of them tense up at that and he glances at the girl, wonders if Jonathan told her anything. The truth? Or a handful of half-truths designed to get her to help him?

 _Drop it, Jim_. Inner-Harvey hisses. _Case. Closed._

"Yes." Jonathan says at last. "She was a very religious woman."

Hm.

He needs to talk to Mrs. Richardson, maybe, see what she knows about Mary Keeny.

"I need to talk to your mom." he says to Kitty. "Is she home?"

She gives him a look that he can't read but nods.

 _"V_ _a te faire foutre."_ she says. He blinks.

"Huh."

That makes her grin.

"Yeah, she's home."**

"Thanks."

He leaves them to go knock on the door.

Mrs. Richardson answers the door with a wicked-looking butcher knife in one hand.

"Detective Gordon."

"Hi." He knows they're watching him. "Can I ask you a couple of questions about Mary Keeny?"

"Sure." She stands aside. He's barely inside when she shouts, "Kitty Richardson, where is your coat?"

"It's not cold!"

"Put it on now!"

There's faint grumbling, muffled laughter and a sudden, "Kitty, I need those to see!"

Mrs. Richardson sighs and shuts the door before returning to the kitchen. Jim follows hesitantly.

"Sit down." she says. "Tea? Biscuit?"

"No, thank you." He probably should have said yes, he thinks a second later. Maybe it would get him on her good side. Oh, well. Too late now. "I was wondering...did you know Mary Keeny very well?"

"No." She picks up a peeled potato and halves it with a quick, decisive **chop**. "We didn't see eye to eye on...certain subjects."

"What was she like?"

"She had a presence." Mrs. Richardson says carefully. "As I said, we didn't see eye to eye very often."

"Jonathan said he's spent the night here before."

"That's right." **Chop.** "Detective, why are you here?"

"Routine investigation..."

"Hm." She doesn't sound convinced. "I _see_."

There's no nice way to say this, and she's no-nonsense enough to give him a straight answer. Hopefully, anyway.

"Do you believe Mary Keeny was abusive?"

Silence reigns, broken only by the steady **chop, chop, chop**.

"I don't like speaking ill of the dead, but...I don't know. I've heard shouting, late at night. Only her, never him."

She must've had quite a voice, to carry over here. Although really, it's not like there's much to block it-this area hasn't really been touched by development.

It's creepy, he'll admit, and he'll admit to feeling kind of like he's in a horror movie or something. Doesn't help that those fucking birds...brr.

"Okay. Um. Thanks. If you think of anything else..." He fumbles for his wallet and pulls out a battered card with his number on it. "Would you call this?"

She takes it and spears it on an envelope spike on the counter.

"Of course."

He leaves, feeling more lost than he did when he got here. Jonathan and Kitty are still at the weather-beaten picnic table, the algebra book open to a page of what Jim _swears_ is the result of a cat walking on a keyboard.

" _Au revoir_ , detective!"

 _That_ one he knows, and he forces a smile and an awkward wave. Kitty returns it. Jonathan doesn't.

He feels the kid's eyes on him all the way back to his car.

* * *

*Shut up, Jim, we all have an inner Harvey.

**Kitty! You can't just tell Jim Gordon to fuck off, what are you thinking?


	6. Chapter Five

AN: So I accidentally mentally cast Tom Hiddleston as a character in one of my original books, and then I killed him, and now I'm stricken with extra guilt.

Not enough to change the ending-guy survived a novel already, that's enough-but still.

Sorry, Mr. Hiddleston. I didn't mean to cast you. It just sort of happened.

 **Christineoftheopera** -All it did was remind me that I have to _wait_ for series four. THEY SUCK AND I HATE THEM. -(

 **wickness** -We all have an inner Harvey!

* * *

Jonathan's not sure what wakes him. Too hot? Too cold? How long has he been awake, anyway?

Silver moonlight slips through a crack in the curtains and hits a picture of a little girl with a dog. Maybe the light woke him.

He rolls over and tugs the curtains open a little wider. The moonlight streams in, carrying with it a tree's shadow, reaching over the bed like skeleton fingers.

What did wake him?

He rubs his eyes with a shaky hand. Something about it feels strange and he lifts it up. It looks normal enough, but it casts a shadow on the wall that looks like a crow's foot.

Brr.

CAWCAWCAWCAW!

A handful of crows suddenly takes flight outside the window and he cringes, dives under the covers where they can't get to him. The cawing stops as soon as it starts, but it's another minute before he feels safe enough to poke his head out.

The moonlight is gone and he blinks, confused. Clouds? Birds?

He looks.

And immediately swallows a scream.

Pressed up against the glass is Granny, her tattered eye still hanging, half-pecked, from its socket.

"No, no..."

Her mouth moves but her tongue is long gone and no sound comes out. Then she opens the window.

* * *

Mary Richardson yawns and pads down the hall, intending to get a glass of water. She's just reaching the staircase when she hears a whimpered, "Please...stop, please...Granny..."

She cracks the door to the guestroom. He's asleep, tangled in his blankets and clearly uncomfortable. For Heaven's sake, it's freezing in this room! How many times has she told that husband of hers to mind the thermostat, God...

"Jonathan?" He murmurs something and moves as though to shield his face. "Jonathan, sweetheart, wake up."

"Granny..."

"Jonathan." She steps in and nearly trips over Mama's rocking chair. Whose idea was it to put that death trap in here? "Wake up, sweetheart, you're having a nightmare."

"M'sorry, I..."

Oh, honey...

She reaches out and shakes his shoulder.

"Jonathan. Wake up, Jonathan." He jerks and his hand shoots out for his glasses. "Wake up, sweetheart, you're okay."

"M-Mrs. Richardson?"

"Hey."

"W-what..."

"You were having a nightmare." she says gently. "You okay?"

"Did I-"

"No." She straightens the bundle of blankets. "I was already up." He doesn't look convinced. "Do you want a glass of water?"

He shakes his head. She makes a mental note to bring him one anyway-he's pale and shaking.

"M'okay, sorry if I woke you up-"

"You didn't wake me up." she soothes. "I'll be right back, okay?"

She leaves before he can protest, goes downstairs to get some water and make sure the doors are locked...even though she's already checked twice.

He's half-sitting up in bed when she comes back and he's quick to scramble upright when he sees her. She turns the light partway on so she doesn't trip on that damn rocking chair and comes in.

"Here you go, sweetheart."

"Thank you, Mrs. Richardson."

"Mary, dear." she corrects absently, knowing full well nothing short of hypnosis will drill that into him.

He takes a sip. He's awfully flushed, but when she raises her hand to his face to feel for fever he flinches back.

"Shh. Two seconds."

Mm-hm. Warm. Not very warm, but warm enough.

"No outside for you tomorrow." she informs him. "Don't argue with me, nothing will come of it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hm." She taps his water glass. "Drink that and go back to sleep."

She's just reaching for the light switch when he half-whispers, "M-Mary?"

"Yes?"

He doesn't answer and she comes back in and sits down.

"G-Granny...I..." He swallows. "I should've been home, if I hadn't-"

"Oh, honey." She hugs him, ignores the sudden tenseness in his spine. "Honey, none of that is your fault, it's all right..."

Jonathan shakes his head and whispers, "I should've been home, she wasn't fit to be on her own..."

"Shh." She coaxes him into lying back down and tucks the blankets back around him. "That wasn't your fault, it was an accident, that's all. Just a horrible accident." He takes another sip of his water and refuses to look at her. "If you need anything, anything, you come get me, okay?"

"Okay."

He won't, and they both know it.

"Get some sleep, Jonathan."

She turns off the light and shuts the door and makes her way back to bed.


	7. Chapter Six

AN: So my dog has a snuggie now. Seriously, we got him one. He's kinda fat, and deep-chested besides, so regular dog coats don't fit him, but he does get cold. He wasn't so sure at first but now he likes it and it's hilarious.

ALSO-I _should_ be able to keep up on this thing, but I am in the middle of preparing my...sixth?...novel for publication, so updates might be a little spotty. Probably not, but you've been warned.

Christineoftheopera- _Guilty? What are you talking about?_

wickness- _Scary's overly dramatic, needs to read fewer gothic novels. Needs to stop writing them, for that matter._

* * *

Mary Keeny's funeral is held on a Saturday morning, at a small church that has to have been around since Jesus was in the third grade. It's not far from where she died-in town, but just barely, at the end of Arlen street.

There's a surprisingly decent turnout and Jim's pleased, if a little guilty that his first thought was, oh, good, people to question.

Well, nobody's perfect.

Despite the crowd, there's not that many speeches-Jonathan doesn't say anything. He's sitting up front with his hands in his lap, not looking at anyone.

Once the speech-bit is over, everyone starts milling about, nibbling at crackers and talking in hushed voices.

"...so horrible, who would have thought..."

"...heard she was half-eaten..."

"Oh, honey, you poor thing, if you need anything, you just pick up the phone."

This last is directed at Jonathan, who gives the woman what Jim dubs to be the most fake smile in existence.

"Thank you, Mrs. Deggs."

Mrs. Deggs seems to have opened the floodgate for offers of help, because a small pack of guests, some of them bearing food, converges on him.

He'll talk to this Mrs. Deggs first, he decides. No way is that water in that hip flask.

Wow, Jimbo, preying on the drunk? Not nice.

He ignores Inner Harvey and makes his way over to her. She's old, older than Mrs. Keeny, with a small moustache.

This is going to be fun, isn't it.

"Mrs. Deggs?"

She caps her flask and turns to him. He can feel her taking a look-see and represses a shudder. Thank god Harvey's not here. He'd laugh and abandon him, because he's a prick like that, and then never let him forget this.

"Hello."

He's never been good at handling grieving people. Harvey's not too good either, but he still manages to be gruff without coming off as a complete dick. Mostly. Jim...Jim hates false sympathy, always has, and for the life of him he sucks at conjuring any. But drunk people tend to be oblivious to that kind of thing.

"I'm a...a friend to Mary." he says lamely. "Or I was. I'm...sorry."

"You're a terrible liar, young man. Here for the free food?"

Well, he tried.

He smiles, maybe a little awkwardly, and glances over at Jonathan. He's slumped wearily against the far wall, nodding a little at something Kitty's just said. Mrs. Deggs follows his eyes and frowns.

"He found her, I understand. Ugly thing. Wasn't much left."

He can work with this. Lying by omission isn't quite the same as straight-up telling whoppers.

At least, he'll tell himself that so he can sleep at night.

"Poor kid."

"Mm." She crunches the cracker and Jim's briefly fascinated with the way the moustache moves. "Surprised he's functioning."

So's Jim. But some people are resilient. Gotham weeds out the weak ones.

"What happened?"

"Well, I'm not sure-" God, that moustache. It's not even that big, but it's...there. "Birds, I heard. Tore her apart." She takes a gulp of whatever's in the flask. "I heard there were bits missing."

"Birds?" Surprised, be surprised. "Seriously?"

"Mm-hm." The moustache. Whyyyyy. "Wrath of God, honey. It's the only explanation."

Okay, then. He's just going to...maybe find someone else to talk to.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

He should probably go offer his condolences again. That's what you do at funerals, isn't it? He doesn't remember Dad's very well.

Jonathan's still against the far wall, engaged in a quiet conversation with Kitty.

"...leave me alone with these people."

"They're not going to hurt you."

"They're just nosey, that's all."

"So's everyone at funerals. They'll go soon."

"I hope so...hello, Detective."

"Hey." What does this kid have against blinking? Seriously, that's not healthy. "How you holdin' up?"

Jonathan gives him a forced smile.

"Well enough. Thank you for coming."

"I'm so sorry."

He gets a brief nod in acknowledgement. He's scrambling for something else to say when Jonathan reaches over to nudge a casserole dish away from the table edge and his sleeve slips up.

Jesus Christ.

A series of red scratches criss-crosses on his arm, disappearing under the sleeve. A set of pale bruises can be seen, though-five of them, thin but definitely hand-shaped.

"What happened?"

"Birds." He's quick to straighten the sleeve out. "They've always been vicious, it's just they've never..." He swallows, refuses to meet Jim's eyes. "They've never gone this far."

Yeah, birds left a hand-shaped bruise on his arm, uh-huh.

"You should get that checked out."

"Mum knows." Kitty's voice is sudden, sharp. "She says it's fine."

He knows that tone, hears the underlying, mind your own business.

"Good." People are getting their coats-he should leave. "That's good."

Jonathan smiles at him again and for a second Jim thinks of that scene in Jurassic Park, with the raptor grinning through the door at Grant.

"I'm sorry." he says again. Then someone else comes up and he slips away without another word.


	8. Chapter Seven

wickness- _NOTHING. HAPPENED. See? This will prove that I did nothing. Really, I didn't._

Christineoftheopera- _No, really, what would I feel guilty about?_

* * *

It's cold and Mrs. Richardson will not be happy to know he's outside, but if he stays in that room another minute he's going to scream.

Besides, she'll never know. If he has to, he'll just sneak in. It's not hard. Kitty apparently believes there's no such thing as a climbing homicidal maniac, because she always leaves her window unlocked.

Heh. He should get a hockey mask and climb up there one day.

He looks up at the old chapel and sighs. He shouldn't be here. He should be in bed, where it's warm. But...

"Jonathan?"

He jumps and whirls around.

"Kitty...what are you doing up?"

"Could ask you the same thing." She tugs her robe around her shoulders. "It's freezing out here, what are you doing?"

"Had to look." He gestures. "I needed to...I don't know, really."

"She's not coming back." She takes his hand and tugs. "Come on. Mum'll have a cow if she catches you out here."

He hates turning his back on the place. He's never sure something won't claw its way out when he's not looking. All the same, he lets her pull him back down the dirt path and away from the dark chapel.

"Kitty?"

"Mm."

"She's...she's dead, isn't she?"

"Yeah." She gives him an odd look. "Yeah, she's dead. Come on."

She tugs on his hand again. He doesn't move.

"I'll come inside in a minute."

"You promise?"

"Mm-hm."

She goes in at last and he waits a minute before going back.

They're ignoring him now, at school. No more mocking nicknames and shoving him into lockers. No more anything-even the teachers are ignoring him unless he makes them talk to him. The teachers feel sorry for him. The students are saying he's a murderer.

Whatever works.

A movement catches his eye and he glances down. A mouse is scurrying towards the door, glancing from side to side every few steps. He kneels down and lays his hand flat. It runs onto his palm and he closes his hand around it, feeling its hearts pounding against its fur. He's been good at catching mice since he was little. It was something to do. Safe? Maybe not, but a mouse bite was never his biggest concern.

"You don't want to go in there." he tells it. "You'll be eaten."

It doesn't try to move. It's probably a minute from a heart attack.

He carries it to the house and releases it on the porch. It stands still for a minute before dashing off and vanishing into a hole.

Granny would not be happy. The thought makes him smirk.

He opens the door.

Already the place is falling apart. It was always on the brink, its only caretakers a sickly boy and a crippled old woman. And now, left alone for weeks, it's beginning to crumble.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, looks at the black hallway with the moonlight streaming through the window on the door. The bust on the key-table seems taller, whiter and the eyes seem to say, why are you here?

He's always hated that thing.

He steps forward, intending to shatter it, but the deeply ingrained Granny will kill me stops him in his tracks.

Maybe it's time to get out of here.

* * *

He's sitting on his bed, watching an owl circling in the distance, when he spots the homeless man.

At least, he thinks it's a homeless man. He looks ratty and filthy and really, who else would be out this way at this hour?

What is he doing, anyway? He's drunk, Jonathan thinks, what with the way he's staggering along the path.

He watches him for a few minutes, wondering if he's a looter or insane (this is Gotham, after all), and suddenly hears the horribly familiar CAWCAWCAWCAW.

A small black cloud rises and he reaches out, fingers the window-latch.

Then he lets his hand fall, straightens up, and pulls the drapes closed.

He needs to get some sleep. He has a test tomorrow.

* * *

*GOTHAM LOGO FLIES INTO CAMERA*


	9. Chapter Eight

AN: Sorry, random homeless guy in the last chapter. I swear I didn't plan that.

Seriously, he just wandered in and I THIS IS SPARTA'd him into the chapel. *shrugs* Uninvited guests are not tolerated in my work! Peasants. This chapter is meh...Jim hates me right now. So I punished him.

ladylampetia- _Since when has my life become a TV show?_

wickness- _There is a no trespassing sign out there. Somewhere. There used to be, anyway..._

* * *

"Oh, come on!"

Harvey bears down on him like an enraged bull, fedora practically quivering atop his head.

"What?"

"That case, the one I know you didn't really drop, with the birds?"

"Uh-huh."

"There's another one."

"What?"

"Yeah. Some homeless guy bit it out there. Mailman found him this morning, poor guy. Guess he's been there a day or two."

"Birds?"

"Looks like it." Harvey scowls as if the whole thing is Jim's fault. "You're a curse. Every case you touch has _complications_."

He shouldn't laugh. This isn't funny. But Harvey's expression-exasperated and pissed and a little butthurt-is golden. He snickers and pays dearly when his partner snatches his coffee cup off his desk.

"Hey!"

"Come on, Boy Scout. Let's go."

At least it's the weekend.

* * *

Kitty may or may not be dozing off in the swing, nestled up against Jonathan's side because he's warm, when she hears the car.

"Go 'way."

"It's the police again." He sounds confused. "Gordon and the Bull.*"

"Harassment."

"Mm."

He makes no move to get up and she stays right where she is, mentally murdering these assholes for ruining her Saturday. She's recovering from PTS-Post Test Stress-for god's sake!

"Detectives." She feels him shift-waving, maybe-but she doesn't bother. Mum's not home, she doesn't have to mind her manners. "What brings you out here?"

"There's been another death."

Oh. That's a shame.

"Out there?" He moves again. How very irritating. He needs to stop, she's comfortable. "How?"

"Birds."

 _Cawing middle of the night crows aren't nocturnal what on earth-_

She shivers, cracks her eyes open. Bullock-unfortunate name, that one-is walking towards the road. People must be coming, to collect whomever's dead over there. Gordon's standing at the bottom of the steps. Why is he looking at her like that? Like he's not sure whether to pity her or loathe her.

"Detective?"

"Hi."

That is not a smile. That is a...lip movement.

"Hi." Two can play at this game. And she has reason to be pissed-he woke her up. "Shame, about all this."

"Yeah." He glances behind him, towards Bullock. "Did you guys see anything?"

Well! Last time he was here he at least tried to be nice.

"When." Okay, so maybe that was a Tone, but there were no real-life, adulty-adults** anywhere to be seen.

He opens his mouth, but his partner cuts him off without even looking.

"Jim! Get over here!"

Gordon looks about two seconds from telling somebody to please just shut up.

"Don't go anywhere."

He leaves and she twists her head back to look at Jonathan. He looks tired and a little annoyed.

"Pizza bites?"

* * *

"What."

Harvey points to a set of heavy, messy footprints off to the side.

"He might actually have just wandered over there."

God damn it.

"Yeah, maybe." He will not admit that Harvey is right until he _has_ to. "Maybe Crane met him over there."

"Yeah, with his magically trained birds." Harvey jerks a thumb towards the gurney. "Same as last time-very messy. Guy wasn't even in there-looks like they got him just outside the door."

Nice.

"Who is he?"

"Hell if I know. Found a ratty backpack not far from him-homeless guy, probably."

Jim nods and turns, marches towards the chapel. He's maybe ten feet from the door when there's an angry **CAW**. He looks up and flips the bird off.

It ruffles its feathers at him and caws again. He keeps walking.

 **CAW. CAW.**

Now there's two. That's...interesting.

"Go away."

More come. Five, six, ten...none of them are blinking.

He stops and they stare at each other for a minute or two before he turns around and keeps going.

Then his world becomes nothing but black feathers and angry shrieking.

* * *

*That sounds like a bad sitcom that I would totally watch if no one was home.

**I am nearly 23. That does not mean that I am an adult. That means I can cook and play dishwasher tetris, but when it comes to Grown-Up-Things, I need help. Kitty? Barely 18? MUM MUM WHAT DO I DOO?


	10. Chapter Nine

AN: Sorry, Jim.

JUST KIDDING! Now get your ass back here or I'll kill you off, just see if I don't! I'll write a crossover and feed you to Fenrir.

 **wickness** -I want so many sitcoms. I want that one, I want an 'Ed and Oswald murder their way through life and bicker about buying milk' one, and I want an Avengers one where the Loki and Thor and Bucky and Steve cope with Wi-Fi and Natasha is just _done_ with everyone. Yes.

* * *

"Jim! Jesus Christ!"

There's gunshots, and more angry cawing, and then the black feathers leave his vision. He's somewhat aware that there's a long scratch, narrowly missing his left eye, and that his head and hands are bloody. His back is numb and yet raw at the same time.

"Jim! Jim, buddy, look at me, come on!"

He's pulled over onto his back-oww-and tugged upright.

"Christ on a bicycle...say something."

"Fuck my life."

Harvey laughs, the high, shaky laughter of someone relieved, and claps a hand on his shoulder.

"Never do that again."

"I didn't mean to."

"You have a neon sign above your head that says ATTACK."

He gives Harvey the finger-oh, look, there's a scratch-and lets himself be dragged from the ground. Oww.

There's more cawing and Harvey all but drags him away. Walking hurts. Everything is starting to hurt, actually. This puts a whole new, horrible persepective on what Mary Keeny's last moments had been like.

Brr.

The kids are still on the porch, but now they're standing up. Kitty apparently tried to come see what was going on-Jonathan's got hold of her wrists and she's partway down the steps.

"Yeah, I told them to stay there."

He doesn't even care. He wants ibuprofen.

"Are you okay?"

He waves at them, more of a flap than anything, and Kitty all but drags Jonathan off the porch. The sight reminds Jim of a dog pulling its owner into traffic.*

"Oh my god, you look horrible."

Jonathan glances at him and Jim's not sure if that's sympathy or disappointment on his face. Either way, it doesn't last.

"Lukewarm water." he says. "Not hot, it makes it worse. And no ice, you'll regret it."

Jim flashes back to the funeral, to the criss-cross scratches on his wrist, to the hand-shaped bruise beneath them.

He needs to get in there, to get a good look at that chapel.

"Thanks."

He shrugs. Harvey takes Jim's elbow and guides him towards the car.

"Come on, genius. Let's turn you over to Lee**."

Lee's going to murder him for confronting dangerous birds alone, even if he didn't mean to.

"You're kidding."

"Nope." Harvey looks far too happy about this. "Maybe she'll make your dumb ass think twice before before investigating alone."

"You were right behind me!"

"I had to _run_." He sounds butthurt. "I was not right behind you, I was back there, talking to Ed and trying not to kill him."

"So I rescued you from that."

"Don't care, don't be an idiot."

"Aw, you love me."

"Shut up and get in the car. Start making up a heroic story for Lee."

Yeah. This is going to suck.

* * *

Lee was not pleased, but she was a little more reasonable. Even though she did point out that he should've maybe been a little more cautious, seeing as the birds had killed two people already, _no, Jim, they did, I proved it, don't argue._

He believes her, it's not that, it's just that...well...the homeless guy, okay. Shit happens. Bad luck. But Mary Keeny? No way she didn't know about the dangerous birds. No fucking way.

So here he is, in the middle of the night when said birds should be sleeping, armed with a gun and a flashlight and just opening the door of the chapel.

It's cold in here, cold and dusty and falling apart. There's a cross on the wall, but it's nearly completely ripped out-it's holding on by one cluster of nails on the left, making it tilt sideways. There's no sign of the birds, but when he looks up to check he sees there's sticks protruding from the wall. Perches. This was an aviary first, converted at some point.

Huh.

The ceiling's given way years ago, looks like-there's not even pieces on the floor, hardly. Wood chips that could be from anything, that's all that's there. Wood chips and straw and two old pews that have long since been overturned. He makes his way to the closer one, curious, and sees that the underside is scored with scratches-the same type that currently litter his back and limbs.

They wouldn't have been good protection from the birds for adults-they're small and half-open as it is, but for a child...

He glances up again, makes sure there's no crows-just one and he's out of here-and continues looking around.

There really isn't much else to see. The altar beneath the cross has collapsed in on itself, and a picture-he can make out a table through the dust, _The Last Supper_?-has fallen from the wall and lies in a broken frame nearby.

He turns around and the beam of the flashlight catches a series of deeper scratches low on the door. Not the right for an adult, but for a child...

No. No, surely not.

He kneels down and places his fingers in the grooves. They don't fit, but shrink them down a little, say, to a seven year-old's size, skinny and desperate to just _get out, Granny, please let me out..._

 _Oh, my god._

The grooves go a little ways up the door, and when he traces them up flakes of dried blood come off. There's faint lines a little higher, and then they stop.

Jim thinks he's going to vomit.

The chapel suddenly seems to shrink in on him, long-stiffled screams echoing around him. He needs to get out of here.

 **CAW.**

He ducks out and books it to his car, the cool night air easing some of the nausea.

But not enough-he's five paces away from the car when he stops cold and throws up.

* * *

*Things don't change much in their future. 'Kitty, I don't want to.' 'Come on, you can't stay in the lab forever.' 'Yes, I can-hey stop that stop _pulling_ I can walk on my own!'

**Lee is fabulous. Jim does not deserve anyone with the balls to tell the Penguin to hush without even looking at him. DON'T FUCK THIS UP, JIM.


	11. Chapter Ten

AN: Sherry is comics canon. He liked her, she set him up for a prank date, death happened. We'll say prank date went down in this 'verse, but she's obviously not dead yet. (I had him hold a grudge for a good long while-curious souls can find her fate in _Phobias_. Somewhere.)

wickness-I'm pretty sure Jim will find a way to fuck it up. Or Oswald will take offense at being left in Arkham. One of those...

Christineoftheopera-We can only dream.

* * *

 _He slams the door and slumps against it, shaking and trying to drown out the screams and caws._

 _The screams finally stop and he struggles up. He needs to get cleaned up, a hot shower and fuck it, maybe some of Granny's 'medicinal' whiskey..._

 _The door flies open and he turns in time for ragged, bleeding hands to grasp his shirt._

 _"Jonathan!"_

 _NONONONONO!_

 _He pulls back and she stumbles forward, fingers grasping weakly, before croaking up a mouthful of blood and collapsing facedown on the dirt pathway._

 _Then the birds come._

 _He runs, is halfway home before someone else grabs him._

 _"Jonathan. Jonathan! Jonathan, look at me!"_

 _Kitty. Just Kitty, that's all..._

 _"My god...what happened to you?"_

 _He shakes his head. His glasses, already precarious in the positioning, slip off his nose and fall to the ground. Gone. She's gone she's gone she's gone it's over._

 _He's going to be sick._

 _He dry-heaves and she steps back right before he falls hard to his hands and knees, choking on bile._

 _"Jonathan?" She's frightened, confused. He should lie, say the door wasn't closed properly and he got out._

 _What comes out of his mouth is not that._

 _"She's dead."_

 _"Jonathan..." She steps back again and he sees her tensing to run, knows she's calculating how many steps it is to her front door. "Jonathan, what have you done?"_

 _"She's dead." he says again. "She's dead, I..."_

I killed her.

 _But he can't force those words out and thinking them makes him vomit again, his fingers tensing against the grass in an effort to keep him from falling in it._

 _"I heard screaming."_

 _He swallows hard, wishes he had a water bottle, and makes his trembling limbs stand up._

It was an accident. _he should say._ She fell, the crows...

 _"She's there." He points. "I don't...you shouldn't..."_

 _She steps closer._

 _"You're sure?"_

 _If she's not...if she isn't...he doesn't know what he'll do._

 _"Mostly."_

 _"Check."_

 _He does not want to go back there, can't stomach the sight of her, but..._

 _She's right._

 _"I can't."_

 _"Come on."_

 _She reaches out, takes his hand._

 _The birds are feasting. A few of them lift their heads and caw when they approach, but most of them remain where they are, red-tipped beaks tearing flesh from bone without a care in the world._

 _Kitty flinches, closes her eyes and breathes through her mouth._

 _"Yeah. Right. Um." Her fingers tighten around his wrist. "Okay."_

 _What now? He doubted he'd get this far._

 _Maybe this is a dream._

 _"Go get cleaned up." she says. What? What's she talking about?_

 _"Kitty?"_

 _"Mum and Ada aren't home. Get cleaned up. And give me this."_

 _Her fingers are at the buttons on his shirt and he steps back._

 _"What are you doing?"_

 _"Do you want to go to prison?"_

 _No, not really, but what does that have to do with his shirt?_

 _"No."_

 _"Then give me this."_

 _"What are you doing?"_

 _"Look at this!" She jabs the bloody fingerprints on his collar. "No way you can pass that off as a bloody nose. Now hand it over."_

 _They've moved away from the birds, but he can still hear them squabbling amongst each other. This is a dream. A horrible, nonsensical dream, that's all. Has to be._

 _He gives the shirt to her and promptly wishes he hadn't-it's freezing out here._

 _"Thank you. Go get cleaned up. They'll be back in...an hour or so, probably, they were going to a movie."_

 _"But..."_

 _"Go."_

 _"You shouldn't-"_

 _She brushes her fingers against a mostly-healed cut on his throat before giving him a nudge._

 _"Go."_

* * *

"Jonathan?"

He glances up from his textbook and his memories-what _did_ Kitty do with that shirt, anyway? He hasn't seen it since-and sees that Sherry Squires has sat down across from him.

"Mm."

He'd like to ignore her completely-and should, after what she did to him-but it's habit to answer her, deeply ingrained from years of hoping for so much as a smile.

"I'm sorry. About...about your grandmother."

Oh. She's _curious_. Ugh. What _is_ it with people and grisly deaths, fucking ghouls...

"Thank you." He goes back to his book, having long since lost his place. He really should ask Kitty what she did...she sounded so confident, and he's curious...

Sherry doesn't leave and he permits irritation to creep into his voice.

"What do you want?"

"They're...the things they're saying..." Oh. She's got the guts to ask. Probably sent over by her friend group. "They're not true."

So much faith in him. Or there would be, if her voice weren't shaking so badly.

"Mm."

"Are they?"

He lets his lips quirk up in what passes for a smile and puts his book away.

"I couldn't tell you if they were, could I? Not without having to kill you."

He leaves her there, face white and lips shaking, and heads off to class.

You know, it's the first time he's ever seen her rendered speechless.


	12. Chapter Eleven

AN: Eddie! My little baby's all grown up and commiting Riddler crimes! *sniffs* I'm so proud...

If you can find it, Dan Frechette's 'Goodbye Monday' is fitting for this chapter. Yes. (Soundcloud, maybe? Or Bandcamp? It's a bit of a bitch to hunt up, but it's there somewhere.)

I actually forgot to post this. Meh. I got distracted-working on a Daredevil story. You'll see that soon, after 'The Drowned Temple' is all posted. Poor Matt. He has no _idea_ what he's in for...

Christineoftheopera- _Technically, the birds killed her. Technically._

wickness-Poor Jim needs a hug now. And therapy. But mostly a hug.

Guest- ** _Jonny doesn't trust me with police._** _I don't trust you with anything. **Go fuck the garbage disposal.** Isn't that cutting off your nose to spite your face? **...GODDAMMIT.**_

* * *

Harvey, he knows, is going to be a raging ball of 'what the fuck were you thinking?' and 'goddammit, Jim' and maybe a bit of 'I wouldn't even bother coming to your funeral' (which is a lie, Harvey would show up and cry like a baby. The thought warms him).

But Harvey's not here, it's their day off, which means he's at home drinking and watching reruns of _Say Yes to the Dress_.*

So here Jim is, hoping against hope that he won't have to fight his way past the holy terror of Mary Richardson-or, for that matter, her kid. He's not sure what he's hoping for-to startle a confession out of him? He has no proof. He has nothing but the overwhelming knowledge that Jonathan Crane finally snapped and turned the tables on her.

And that's not enough.

But...he can't just let this go. He _won't_ let this go. Maybe she deserved it. That didn't give him the right.

He gets his wish about Mary Richardson, but not about Kitty. They're outside, sitting at the chipping picnic table. Well, he's sitting at it-she's sitting on top of it, making a daisy crown.

"...not putting that thing on my head."

"It won't hurt you."

"It looks ridiculous, no."

"Come on, please? Do it for me?"

"Absolutely not." He pries one of the daisies from her fingers and tucks it behind her ear. "There. One of us is wearing a weed. Happy?"

"That's not what I meant-Detective Gordon!"

He forces a smile and knows it comes off...badly.

"Detective." Jonathan's still, for the moment, the quiet, downtrodden young man-painfully earnest, wouldn't hurt a fly. Looks a little like Norman Bates. "What can I do for you?"

Has he ever broken this facade? Did he break it when she died?

"Could we talk?"

"Sure."

"Alone?"

Ah, he's hit a spot-Jonathan's eyes harden and Jim has that _feeling_ again, that feeling he's being watched by a Velociraptor rather than a person.

"Rather not."

Fine. He offered.

There's no easy way to lead into this. There never is.

"You killed her."

That prompts an incredulous laugh.

" _Me?_ Are you feeling all right?"

"You did, didn't you. You locked her in there for the birds, like she did to you."

Jonathan studies him and Jim resists the urge to squirm.

"I thought we'd established this, Jim-may I call you Jim? I've been seeing you enough that it feels about time to start." A brief smile touches his face. "My grandmother suffered a fall in the worst possible place. It was an accident, nothing more."

Quoth the raven, 'nevermore!'

"You threw her in, you locked the door. Maybe you didn't plan to, but you did. An eye for an eye."

Kitty snorts.

"Have you met him? _Blood_ makes him squeamish, let alone the type of thing you're suggesting."

He ignores her.

"She did it to you, didn't she? More than once, she locked you in-"

"Enough."

"Maybe you were desperate, maybe you thought she'd never let you leave-"

 ** _"Enough."_** His voice is harsh, raspy, and for a second Jim wonders if he should get Kitty out of here, if he's desperate enough to... "You don't know anything."

"I know enough."

"And what's your proof, hm? Oh, that's right-you don't have any."

He laughs again, cold and unhappy and just a little bit hysterical, and just like that the mask shatters and the sorrowful, horrified boy is gone.

"You never met her. You never _knew_."

"Jonathan-"

"You never knew her." Kitty winds her arms around one of his and Jim is struck sick by the idea that she knows, she _knows everything_ , from the birds to...to this. "You never met her, never had to be thrown into **_that goddamned chapel_** -"

"Jonathan." That's Kitty's voice, hesitant and soft. "Enough, love."

"You did it." Jim says again. "I don't know how, but I'll prove it, I'll prove you-"

This time he doesn't stop laughing until he's doubled over, one hand gripping Kitty's shoulder for support.

"How? You drag me in, well...I've got enough bruises to say you forced me to confess." He's going to be sick. And then he's going to throttle the bastard. "Face it, there's nothing you can do. Especially since I didn't kill her."

Technically, maybe. MAYBE.

He's right, though. And that's the truly galling part about this whole thing.

This is bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

"I think it's time you left, Jim." Jonathan says gently, his voice smug and I-Know-More-Than-You. "Unless you want me to file a harrassment complaint. I'm sure the papers would be all _over_ that."

He's never punched a kid before, but he's tempted to start now.

"This isn't over." he hisses. Jonathan snorts.

"Don't be dramatic." He straightens up. "Good afternoon, Detective."

* * *

Jim goes home after that, no stops. And then he pours himself a very stiff drink-his hand slipped and instead of forty percent vodka he got sixty-and sinks into his chair.

The case goes into the 'SOLVED' files the very next day. Harvey admits, over drinks after work, that the kid creeped him the fuck out.

Jim doesn't say anything.

Ten years later, a monster in a burlap mask lifts a drugged, hallucinating Jim Gordon's face and seems to grin.

 _ **"You were right."**_ it hisses, but its voice is lost to the cawing of the crows and the harsh cry of metal ramming against metal, the snap of his dad's neck louder than anything he remembers.

And then there's nothing but his own screams.

THE END

AN: He got away with it in the comics, and he's going to get away with it now. AND IT OCCURS TO ME: Granny could become canon. He can't stay a screaming wreck forever. He could go to live with Granny and things could continue going to Hell.

*I have this terrible headcanon that Harvey loves shit like this. He just strikes me as the type of person who's a raging dick in public, but has the special edition DVD of _The Notebook_ and cried like a baby during _Titanic_. BECAUSE IT'S CUTE.


End file.
